


let this be over now

by ceterum



Category: The Rookie (TV 2018)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s02e10, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterum/pseuds/ceterum
Summary: When a flicker of light rouses Lucy from restless slumber, she figures she must be dreaming.
Relationships: Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen
Comments: 27
Kudos: 248





	let this be over now

**Author's Note:**

> i’m about 10k words into my long slow burn fic, but, after that last episode, i had to take the time to write this.
> 
> most of it was written in the week after the episode aired but i haven't had time to edit it until now. so. here it is, about a month late, but better late than never, ~~i guess~~ i hope

There’s a sound, a tremble, and a flicker of light.

Lucy rouses from restless slumber, consciousness sweeping into her aching limbs. She’s _so tired_. _Can’t they just let her sleep?_

Another sound, louder this time, but still like it’s coming from far away.

Her eyes blink open, slowly, barely — _her eyelids are so heavy_ — but enough to see streaks of light bursting in from above. There’s still this darkness, all around her, this throbbing pain in her head and coldness seeping into her bones—

The reality comes flooding in.

_Trapped. No air. No escape._

But this light… _No, that’s not right_. She figures she must be dreaming. Or maybe finally dead.

The light turns blinding, burning her eyes, and she begins to raise a heavy arm as a shield, but then— _Then._ There’s the slightest brush of air against her skin, like a long-awaited breeze on a sultry day.

_No. Not dead. Not dead yet._

Drawing in large, quick breaths, she attempts to pulls herself up, desperate to feel it again. Her arms buckle under the weight — _so heavy, why does it feel so heavy_ — and her legs don’t quite work as they’re supposed to, feet banging into metal walls, but still, she looks up and—

Hands. Hands, reaching down.

Lucy knows she should be resisting, fighting back. Doing something, _anything_. But she’s _so tired_ , and even just pulling back makes her head swim, her vision blur.

It’s not like it matters. There’s nowhere to hide, she knows that. Just cold metal, going round and round and…

More jerky beams of light. Lucy looks up just in time to see it reflect off something shiny. Something shiny and gold and—

_Badges._

_Cops._

More hands, reaching down, and a face she doesn’t recognize. It’s a woman, and Lucy doesn’t recognize her, but she has a badge. A cop. Not Caleb. _A cop_. Her lips are moving rapidly. Lucy catches only parts of it and can’t make any sense of it.

She wants to respond, something, anything — _she’s here, she needs help _— but her mouth is too dry, her throat too raw from screaming.__

And then all these hands are on her and she’s being pulled up, the world shifting around her, everything a blur. Her legs tremble when they finally lower her to her feet on solid ground. Someone’s speaking into her ear, a low murmur that Lucy finds comforting, even though she can’t quite focus on the particular words.

More people, more voices, more lights. Faces she vaguely recognizes. Faces she’s seen before. _But not—_

She jerks away, a warning on the tip of her tongue. _He was right here, he could be back any second—_

“—okay, Lucy. We got him.”

 _Got him. Badges. Cops_.

 _She is a_ _cop_.

Lucy shakes off the hand holding her arm and tries to stand up straighter. She is a cop and cops aren’t supposed to be victims, they’re supposed to be—

“ _Lucy_.”

She’s rooted to the spot. _That voice_. She knows that voice.

She turns. Tim is there, just a few steps away, reaching for her, all familiar and solid and _safe_ , and her resolve crumbles all at once. Something like a broken sob escapes as she meets him half way, and then his arms are tight around her, one hand buried in her hair.

 _Relief_. She feels relief. So much relief, in every cell of her body. She presses her face against his chest and lets out a shaky breath, hands holding onto him so tightly that her fingers start to hurt.

“Hey, you’re okay. You hear me? You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Blinking against the salty sting in her eyes, she nods against his chest, throat too tight to speak but still needing to get the message across.

After a moment — seconds, minutes, she has no idea how long — he pulls back but thankfully only half way, one of his arms still tight around her. She holds onto it with what strength she has left, all this noise and bustle a confusing blur. The only thing that makes sense is Tim’s warm skin under her fingers, and his firm but gentle voice giving instructions to people around them.

Then there’s some sort of blanket around her bare shoulders — _she had a jacket before, didn’t she —_ and she’s being led out. Tim’s arm is wrapped around her waist, supporting most of her weight. She leans into him, grateful, her head resting against his shoulder, just for a moment.

“ _I’m sorry, Lucy,”_ he whispers into her hair. “ _I’m so sorry.”_

She wants to ask him _what for_ , but, before she can, she falters in her step because they’ve just stepped outside, where vivid colors are stretching across the sky as the sun rises on the horizon, and _the wind —_ it feels wonderful on her face.

“—you okay?”

Lucy blinks her eyes open, finds Tim staring down at her, his face just inches away, brow creased in worry. If she wasn’t so tired, she’d reach out and smooth it herself. Instead, she nods, and fights to stay conscious as he half-carries her to the ambulance.

More people, more voices, more lights.

She’s being laid down, hands pushing and probing. She’s too tired to protest. At least until—

Something covers her face.

Panic — sheer, paralyzing — grips her from the inside. She freezes, claws at the plastic, pushes it away. _The air — it’s running out — and she can’t have much left—_

“It’s okay, Lucy.” A hand — Tim’s hand — wraps gently around her wrist, guiding the mask back to her face. “Just breathe. It’s okay.”

His eyes are weary and a little sad, but it’s _Tim._ She trusts him with her life. So, she relaxes, slowly, and draws in a tentative breath.

It feels — okay. It’s okay, just like he said. His eyes are warm and hopeful and encouraging. Holding his gaze, his hand still resting on top of her own, she takes one more breath, then another. Her heavy limbs feel just a little lighter.

His mouth curves into a smile, shoulders lowering in relief. He moves his hand away and — before she has time to panic about him leaving — he drops it to her shoulder.

She takes another deep breath — his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles into her skin — and closes her eyes, relaxing fully against the stretcher.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she thinks she hears him say, just as something pricks her arm. Cool numbness creeps through her, dimming the heat of her pain.

 _You’re gonna be okay_ , Tim’s words echo in her mind, over and over again.

She lets herself believe them.

***

“—it down—"

“—can’t predict the weather but—"

“—she is. See, I told you.”

Lucy awakes to starchy sheets, sore muscles, and way too many voices making way too little sense.

As the room slowly shifts into focus, she’s greeted by Jackson’s gentle smile. He is perched on the side of her bed, his hesitant hand coming up to rest on top of the covers just below her knee.

Covers. Bed. Hospital. For one moment, she panics, and then the doctors’ assurances come back. Dehydration and superficial cuts and drugs in the system. She remembers tests and endless questions — she must have fallen asleep at some point, but she’s okay. She’ll be okay.

Right now, though, as she attempts to sit up, her body feels like one giant bruise, her headache is dull but persistent, and her lips dry. She’s never been more thirsty in her life.

“ _Water_ ,” she croaks out, throat rasping, and her own voice sounds foreign to her ears.

“Coming right up,” Jackson says, already reaching for the cup on the nightstand. She grabs it out of his hands and gulps the water down in one go, making him reach hesitatingly back for the cup. “Hey— _Easy_. The doctor said you should take it easy.”

Still, he fills up two more cupfuls for her because he is a great friend, and puts the cup away only when she shakes her head, settling back against the pillows.

It’s only then that she takes in the rest of the room. To her right, in the visitor’s chair, there’s Angela, her lap full of half-finished reports. John, in another chair in the corner. But where’s _—_

 _Ah._ Tim is leaning against the wall by the door, his watchful eyes on her. As she meets his gaze over the room, his only reaction is the slightest tick in his jaw. She’s not sure what to make of that.

“How are you feeling?” Angela asks, grabbing her attention, her voice gentle and smile soft.

All of a sudden, Lucy feels the weight of all the expectant eyes on her. The attention borders on pity far more than she’s comfortable with. She considers her aching limbs and the lingering fuzziness in her head, but also how she could barely stand on her feet just hours ago, and then clears her throat. “Good,” she says, with as much confidence as she can muster.

Clearly not enough.

It stings, just a little, the slew of head tilts and understanding nods and sympathetic smiles, like they’re pretending to go along with her tough act for her sake. Pulling out the kid gloves and acting overly cautious and gentle like she’s _delicate_ , like she could break at any moment if they say the wrong word or make too sudden of a move.

Silence stretches on for a moment too long. Jackson rushes to break it. Fussing with her bunched-up bed covers, he launches into a rant, something about hospital food and acceptable colors for jello. Lucy pays only half attention to it.

Instead, she chances a glance at Tim, who still hasn’t said anything, and — yep, hasn’t so much as moved — still studying her, his expression still impossible to read. He’s not smiling or nodding or tilting his head, just watching her with a refreshing sort of calmness and steadiness. And yet, she has no doubt that he sees right through her. It’s a relief, in a way.

She should probably be asking all these questions about how they found her, what happened to Caleb, or whatever the hell his name is _._ She knows they caught him running from the house they found her in, that’s how much Sergeant Grey was willing to share before the doctors whisked her away for a thousand and one tests.

However, just the thought of him — smiling at her at the bar, all _polite_ and _charming_ and _nice_ — makes her insides clench, has her bracing against a surge of emotions so strong and loud everything else disappears for a moment. Her nails dig into the palms of her hands, broken and still a little bloody. She barely notices the pain, too wrapped up in the whirl of emotions that rises deep in her chest. She’s ashamed. She’s humiliated.

She’s _furious_.

She squashes it all down before anyone notices, and turns her attention back to Jackson.

He is still talking a mile a minute, his slightly too cheerful voice filling up the hospital room as he chatters about this and that, but nothing even remotely related to why she is in here. He’s clearly trying to take her mind off it, so he talks about Smithy tripping in the parking lot yesterday morning and their crazy neighbors’ new monstrosity of a potted plant. It’s not going to work, but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that.

So he talks and talks and talks, and John jumps in with a quip every once in a while, and Angela keeps smiling, _and_ _Tim still hasn’t moved_ , and just when Lucy’s about to snap and yell, _yes, i was kidnapped by a serial killer and what about it_ , or something like that—

The door flies open and Sergeant Grey comes barging in. “Lopez and West, we need you out—” His gaze lifts from the clipboard in his hands and zeroes in on Lucy. “Oh, Chen, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Good, sir,” she replies without missing a beat, already sick of that question, but thankful for the reprieve from the well-intentioned gang of well-wishers.

“Glad to hear it. Anything you need, you let me know. Captain will come speak to you later, and detectives are waiting to talk to you when you’re ready.”

She nods.

“Good. Now — Lopez, West, Nolan, we’ve got a massive pile-up on San Vicente.”

“Sir—” Jackson begins, clearly about to protest, but Grey waves him off before he gets the chance to.

“All hands on deck.”

“I’m staying here,” Tim says finally — _finally —_ as he kicks off the wall, arms crossed, almost daring Sergeant Grey to say otherwise.

He doesn’t. The two of them exchange a look that Lucy can’t read from the bed. “I know you are,” Grey says, and after one more nod at Lucy he’s striding out of the room, not bothering to wait for his officers, simply trusting that they’ll follow.

Angela collects her paperwork and stands up before giving Lucy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Get some rest, Chen.”

John follows after Angela, with a small wave in Lucy’s direction.

Jackson pats her leg. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says, giving her one last regretful look, before hurrying after Angela.

The door shuts behind them and blissful silence settles in. Lucy closes her eyes and allows herself to relax into the pillow, breathing out in relief. Even this short of an interaction has her feeling drained.

It’s just Tim left now, but he’s already seen her in too many moments of weakness and embarrassing situations to count — _and_ hasn’t kicked her out of the program yet — so it’s all good. She knows Tim. She can deal with Tim. There’s no need to fear his sympathy turning into pity.

When she opens her eyes again, Tim is taking a seat in the chair next to the bed, moving stiffly. He is not entirely uninjured, she realizes — bruised side maybe, and there’s a cut on his cheek she hasn’t noticed before — although he holds himself like he’s trying to hide that. She wants to ask how he got those, but she suspects it has something to do with finding her, and she can’t bring herself to break this comfortable silence just yet.

He eases into the chair with just a hint of a wince and immediately turns his full attention to her, his eyes carefully searching her expression.

For one moment she contemplates putting up a front, but quickly decides against it. _Whatever._ It’s not like there’s a point in trying to hide things from him. Her assumption is immediately confirmed as he gives her a knowing look.

“So. How are you really feeling?”

“Like shit,” she admits, not mincing words, and his mouth twitches in amusement.

As if this one admission has resulted in some great barrier being lifted, all those emotions come rushing to the surface, and she’s helpless to stop them. Anger rises inside her, heartbeat pounding in her chest. “And like a fool,” she bites out, hands clenching the covers.

He frowns, either confused about what she means, or knowing and not liking it. She doesn’t wait to find out.

“If I hadn’t been drinking—”

“No,” Tim says without missing a beat, leaning forward in the chair. “We’re not doing that.”

Yeah, that’s easy for him to say. She presses on, shaking her head, “It’s my fault, I— I should have realized he was playing me. What kind of _an amateur_ doesn’t watch _the drink_ —” She turns away to swallow the bitterness that’s clawing at her throat. “A real cop wouldn’t become a victim of the serial killer they’re _chasing_.” He shifts in the chair, clearly about to take issue with her statement, so she turns her head to look at him, daring him to disagree with the following one. “ _You_ wouldn’t.”

“I’m the one who sent you off with him, Lucy,” he bursts out, shifting forward like he’s about to jump out of the chair, fingers digging into the armrest. “I didn’t see it either.” He leans back and looks away for the first time, shaking his head. He’s refusing to meet her eyes. Something is eating away at him and she can’t figure out what it is at first, but then it hits her. _Guilt_. He’s feeling guilty. But the idea that he feels like he’s to blame in any way for what happened to her — it just doesn’t sit right with her.

“You spent thirty seconds with the guy,” she says gently, but firmly enough to make her point. “It’s not your fault.” She needs him to know that she would never in a million years blame him for any of this.

He doesn’t respond, not at first, his gaze remaining fixed on an indefinite point on the wall and his jaw clenched. But then, just as she’s about to repeat her statement — and continue to do so, as many times as it takes — he turns his head and meets her eyes. She’s surprised to find his expression growing pleased, in that annoying kind of way that usually means he’s just had an argument-winning thought.

He has, and he announces it proudly. “Either we’re both at fault, or neither of us are. You can’t pick and choose.”

“That’s—” _Ridiculous_ , she wants to say, mind racing as she desperately searches for faults in his logic. She can think of a few right off the bat. _She spent more time with him. She didn’t watch her drink._ However, it all comes down to the same thing. If she blames herself for not seeing through Caleb’s act, she would have to blame Tim as well — something she’s not ever going to do. He’s well aware of it too, if his raised eyebrow — practically daring her to argue her case — is anything to go by.

A hint of a smile appears on his lips. He’s won and he knows it.

She huffs out a breath and looks away, ignoring his dumb, smug smile — and how, despite everything, it has her fighting one of her own.

Deeming this discussion finished, he promptly changes the subject. “Jackson called your parents.”

“Oh God.” She’s wincing just imagining the worried, disapproving looks she’ll be on the receiving end of, the thinly-veiled attempts to evaluate her emotional state, and offers to talk about it in exhausting detail. _Lucy, dear, don’t you think it may be time to consider a career change?_

“He said he managed to convince them to hold off a visit until morning,” Tim says, his tone neutral but eyebrows slightly raised. He’s clearly curious about her relationship with her parents, but decides to leave that conversation for another time.

“Remind me to thank him,” she says, grimacing at the pain that flares at her side as she shifts into a more comfortable position. “Profusely.”

Corners of his mouth tug up at that, right before he frowns at her strained movement.

“You should rest,” he says — and, yeah, he’s right, but she’s not going to tell him that. Not when she can tease him instead, and hopefully eliminate the persisting concern from his expression.

“Can you recite one of your sergeant’s exam books or something? That’ll put me right to sleep.”

He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “No, but I can recite the LAPD manual. Especially Section 210: Respect For Superiors,” he deadpans.

She covers her smile by making a show of yawning. “Nah, I’m good.”

He manages a disapproving expression for a moment longer but then breaks out into a smile of his own, his eyes crinkled with warmth.

Pleased with herself, she relaxes into the pillow, lightly stretching her sore muscles. Her eyelids are growing heavy. She feels the pull of sleep again, the lingering exhaustion in her limbs swiftly resurfacing.

Just as she’s about to give in to it, a freezing wave of panic washes over her. What if Tim leaves, and she’s alone, and sleeping, and can’t defend herself, can’t fight, like before _—_

“Can you, uh— Can you stay, at least until Jackson comes back?” The words are out of her mouth before she even realizes what she’s saying.

The mere thought of being alone and helpless again sends an icy shiver down her spine. She should probably be embarrassed, but she can’t find it in herself to care right now, not when she can still feel cold metal under her fingertips, and the walls seem unnecessarily close.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tim says firmly, leaning closer until he’s suddenly _right there_ , and his hand is on her forearm, the weight warm and gentle and comforting. It fills her with a pleasant rush, leaves her feeling relieved, content, _safe_ , and a hint of something else, something her increasingly drowsy mind can’t quite name. Her eyes flutter shut. “You can sleep. I’ll be right here,” he says, surprisingly soft. His hand curls around her arm as physical proof, thumb brushing lightly over her skin, a gesture that has her melting into the pillows as blankness overcomes her. “You can sleep.”

And so she does.

**Author's Note:**

> the one good thing about me not reading works from fandoms i'm currently writing something similar for is that i now have lots of new post 2x10 fics to catch up on. i have to say i'm really enjoying this fandom's slow but steady growth.
> 
> anyway. let me know your thoughts, your still unsettled emotions about that last episode, new year’s wishes... whatever floats your boat. i’m here for it all.
> 
> hope everyone's having great holidays!


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